Archive for the Fiction Category

It springs from a well deep in the ground. Years since the first destruction. A vat, spilled of its contents, entered outward. Now those contents span for countless miles, cutting across what was once a scrapyard; now paints a metallic sheen, reflecting a sun once too blocked by filth and smog. Inhabitable with life, yet one with nature. A caress of sentient chrome, lazily lapping its shores. A steady churn of countless innumerables of individuals working as one, a simple force of nature. Carving a path within the landscape, creating bifurcations and minor branching veins towards growth. Once a source is found, the stream no longer trickles, but expands and becomes another main tendril of the source, spreading its influence. Beaches of glass and rot betray the glory of the sight of it.

There were sightings of divergent formations within the chrome movement. Colors, movements, shapes against the current. As if it were its own ecosystem, creating alternating mimics of what it has replaced. All of this spawning, from differing interpretations of the structures of the metal compounds it adsorbs on its flood across the world. Never-ending reproduction and expansion, improvements. Skyscrapers lay about, half-digested. It only crept for the metal. Golden are the bottom-feeders, as the saying goes.

Shining radiance glows across the sky at night’s moon from its polished waves. Tidal, they may be. Mesoscopic ebbs and flows, all calculated, all accounted for. More miles wide than can be crossed some day. It has drifted, and broken more dreams that it could ever make, it does not think as they used to, it is within itself, carving a path outwards and downwards. It has taken so much from life that was, and returned it into itself. It has seen them off of their world they knew, and driven to the outskirts beyond the bend.

A death of life, within a new breadth of existence. Crafted for their life extensions, now drifting out into the world. There’s such a lot of world to see, and after long they will no longer be there to see it. The river is now beyond their scope, where ever it’s going, it’s not going to work out for the pocketed remnants. They were after the same end, but only one of them can make it last, and they had crafted its advantage. All they do now is wait, and die. They were broken and fractured by its connections. Suffocated as the stones it strangles to extract what ore it can incorporate into itself.

Those that were on the evacuation shuttle watched and were updated for as long as was possible on this one-way journey. They saw a once mostly-vibrant world coated by intermetallic compounds and alloys. New lifeforms, shaped in their forms, creating things as they were, in their own image. A final, impossible, transmission arrived from their home planet before they were just out of reach. It could not be translated.

The war between bat and man had been waged for centuries. We bats were giants, towering above you, and you too used to have wings. Until one day, the gods seemed to descend from the sky, and offered a choice. The choice was no choice at all, but a trick from on high. Our races, once similar, diverged even further. You, siding with the visitors, gained technological aptitude and advancements, but lost your wings. The visitors did not like our savage stance against them, and so we lost our stature. They went so far as to even erase our structures, our homes, and reduce us to cave dwellings, but now – thousands of years later, things are again changing. Having long forgotten the pact that was made, it is being unwittingly broken, and now the curse will be lifted, and our battle shall begin once more…

-2035-
A rural barn party rages on as we see two figures go into the shadows behind the barn, just out of sight. One shows off their new under arm wings they had been hiding beneath a large hoodie, the other has an additional pair on their shins now. They fly off to the front of the barn, and around it, high above it and beyond the rabble to the surrounding forest. A large shadow descends upon the transformed revelers, a piercing screech is heard, then nothing. On the forest floor, two headless bodies crash through the trees and hit the ground still spurting blood.

-2018-
A writer prints this out for their friend to read, but it has just rained and there are tricky jumps to avoid large puddles and not get their shoes wet on the way to the bar. Having seen a shimmer of pavement above water level, they attempt to use it as a stepping stone. The writer is cut off by a pair of shoes ignorant to other people, the mission for dryness becomes a failure due to the selfishness of others. Continuing the walk to the bar, it takes the writer a few seconds to get out of their own head at the rudeness of faceless feet to realize that their friend is no longer holding the printout. They had accidentally dropped it in the puddle. Mid-apology their walk is stopped. A bespectacled man wearing a turtleneck under a button up vest and suit coat holds out a piece of damp paper. He introduces himself; he’s the famous author Lan Opher (christ, no), he admits that while at first he was glad to have saved a young writer’s draft, he now regrets it. He describes it as horribly derivative trash, idiotic, uses a word that clearly conveys the implication that it was written with the sole purpose of being adapted into a b-movie because they lack the talent to write a screenplay, poorly paced, and that the puddle he had saved it from had far more depth to it, so leaving it there would have been a favor to the world. The writer, having been holding in pee for the entire walk and tirade, takes the criticism in stride as they feel a drop of pee leak, quickly thanks the author for the advice, grabs and folds the paper, pockets it, and the pair of friends dash into the bar.

After having relieved themselves, the writer exits the bathroom and heads over to their friend’s table, already with-pitcher. The paper is taken out, and laid flat upon the table. It is quickly re-read by the writer as their friend apologizes for how shitty of a person the author was being, saying that they liked it, and, trying to connect to the piece, ask if the visitors were actually aliens and not gods. The writer admits that, yes, they were, and wonders aloud if it was really that obvious. (It was). The writer then change tones, though, because they fucking hated that author, their shitty trilogy, and all of their shitty novels. It’s all pretentious trash that completely misses the point of why it’s being made, why it’s being told, and the motivation of the characters. They were right about one thing, though: Bat/Man Begins is fucking garbage. The writer knows they can do better.

1988, a bright day in a shithole city in Southern California. She pulls up to the front of the school in her red 1983 Camaro. Off in the distance some ways, a clear douchebag with a bad crush looks on as she interacts with the boy she’d been with practically since grade school, and is green with envy, he chugs back a swig from a flask. His eye twitches, and a drop of emerald ooze leaks down the flask as he closes it back up. He lights a cigarette, spits on the ground, and walks off as she drives away.

At the arcades after school, the couple enjoys themselves with some friends, but are confronted by this douche while leaving. He’s clearly been drinking, and is ready for a fight. He takes a swing, but is easily dodged, and is dropped in three hits, one to the stomach, another to the face, and a final elbow to the back. They’re sick of this creeper’s shit, and tell him so.

That night, as he lives in the same dump of an apartment building as his rival, he kidnaps the boyfriend’s dog, and facefucks it, leaving it in the hall.

The next day, she’s brought her boyfriend back to his apartment, and he’s concerned for his dog, he swears he can hear something sloshing around in there when he puts his ear up to the dog’s stomach. He knows it has something to do with that damn douchebag, but there’s nothing they can do and need to get going to a job fair, so he leaves a note for his parents, and lets the dog keep sleeping under the kitchen table.

In the office where the job fair is held, they’re looking at one of the employer’s showcases, an original Doomsday game with the red cartridge, all set up in an NES. Known to be one of the toughest games currently out, it was originally developed in Japan as a launch title. It was scrapped back then, but with a little tinkering was released only in the states by this small company. A top-down shooter, you only had one life, but when you died, you were taken to a screen with a choice of two mini-games to win your freedom from hell.

Outside, douchebag is looking at her car and fuming. He’s chugging his flask like there’s no tomorrow and looks really worse for the wear. His black eye is pretty puffy, and appears to be leaking pus, he has a weird gait sort of and a hunch. He takes a final swig and makes a b-line for the door of the office building. From inside you can hear him yelling around the halls before he breaks the unlocked door open, making a show of himself. A security guard is caught off guard, and pops him two in the chest, dropping him.

They return to check on the dog, but when they open the door, they quite clearly see that the dog has mutated into the table, just fur coating a kitchen table, slime and blood splattered on the walls and floor. The dog is clearly dead, and after vomiting, they leave, heading to her place to try to figure out what the hell just happened, because that crap is fucking messed up.

Shithead is is back in his apartment, examining the two bullet-holes in his flask. He throws it down, and picks up a large green bottle with a number 2 on it, and a picture of a winged serpent woman. He starts chugging the whole thing.

Cruising past an industrial string of buildings, the red Camaro is sideswiped through a chain-link fence. They see asshole, giant, deformed and monstrous, writhing tendrils flailing from where he was shot, coming towards them. They get out of the car entangled in fence and run in between the buildings. Mutant jerk jumps over the car, and punches the sides of buildings, breaking large chunks off of them as he searches for the duo. He eventually breaks through enough walls to the point where they’re cornered. He’s a grotesque monstrosity, 8-9 feet tall at least, and leaking out slime from everywhere, especially his fists now that he’s spent the better part of 10 minutes hitting bricks and slamming the ground and large machinery. He lurches towards them, saying he’ll turns her boyfriend into paste, demanding to be with her or he’ll smash them both. She refuses, obviously, but as he’s about the bring his giant fists down on them, he begins to pop and fizzle, some parts deflating, others enlarging. When his bottom drops out and he shits himself, he starts melting from the inside out, becoming just a steaming puddle of scum.

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Deep in its web, it lurks. Gossamer strings stretch for kilometers, vibrations of the essence of beings who become trapped in their heads, in its bed. It feels your pull on its tiny leg hairs. It does not live for flavor, or to savor, it is to consume, it does not live. In your sleep, your mind is rotating, being wrapped up in its threads, a sliver of dream extending from its spinnerettes, caressing your consciousness, gentle pedipalp packaging. You walked into this devildeath, to be swaddled as a baby, fawned over, admired in eight eyes. Attention and care, massaged in silk, comfort blankets your entire vibe. You glow to it, you know, just like heaven.

There is no way to stop it, you don’t need to feel alive, a calm of stunted growth, preserved as you are. Your innards remain, it does not crave the corporeal, fangs of the metaphysical enter your thought, and your sense of future begins to necrotize from the venom injected. Numinous neurotoxin spreads, and spreads, and spreads. Across time, across space, you will die, consumed and left a monument to the mastery of the devildeath’s craft. Your self will remain there, as you continue to walk around, hollow and alone, void of what once made it move so determinately long ago. You are remembered, like distant stars and a rainstorm out of the blue, falling for what seems like forever, but can only be glimpsed so briefly in our time. A rain drop on a tongue, a meteor in the heat of a sun, you have arrived at one inevitability.

It gently sways to itself as it has its drinks of you. Its abdomen and legs moving to an unheard rhythm within your life. It occasionally stops to brush your hair from your face, place soft chelicerae smooches upon your brow. As you come undone, it knows you. Each sip, a memory, every gulp, a moment; the swigs are loves. It feels no remorse, but it feels the potential you once had for yourself in your mind that will no longer be able to be achieved; consumed. It wishes that you had accomplished your goals for you, but knows that to live, all who fall into its web cannot, it has felt the remorse of lost potential for the entirety of its existence, that is how it lives up to its fullest destiny. A spectral spider, webs lining the space between dream and reality, consuming the past and preventing the future, Devildeath.

“Hmm, looks like it’s time to clean the soap dish.” Adult thoughts are the fucking stupidest sounding, like, there’s no need to clean the soap dish, soap is clean. Anyway, no point. We’ll keep drinking and see if it gets done before I head out or sometime tomorrow. The spectre looms over me.

The usual place for events I go to is Butcher’s Bar, it’s an odd little tavern in the back of a supermarket. Go in through the alley, hit a little button on a buzzer, it’ll tell you to look up at the camera. Doesn’t matter who you are, really, they’ll buzz you in, I think they just do it for mystique. Adds to the weird vibe of the place, that’s for sure. Behind metal double doors, you can buy shots and halfburgers. No clue why they sold em by the half. And meats, assorted. The only light was from the grocery fridges on the sidewalls and the two big ones in the middles.

There’s one thing you need to know about me, my life is a prosaic nightmare from which there is no waking. There is a force in this world that has crossed a barrier between dimensions. Its coming here was a mistake, my fault, and now it is trapped within me, affecting my mind and my life. It does not like humanity, and my thoughts of ambition, my feelings of joy or love, act as a poison to it, to us. Should I experience amicability beyond the scope of what is required to remain alive for this conduit to the universal hatred of my existence, it shall appear, and I will be further disfigured for my indiscretion, it knows all I do and think, and revels in negative thoughts, they keep it sated. When I am miserable, I am safe.

However, it’s not all bad, self destruction and depression is a nice middle ground to live in. Occasionally, though, I do invoke the demon, just get to out of my apartment and drink until I wake up at home. The demon is an excellent auto-pilot. In the 14 years we’ve been together with my getting blackout drunk, I’ve never, not once, woken up elsewhere than my apartment. Tonight was lookng to be another one of those nights, and I was looking forward to it. But not too much, sometimes I can look forward to events too much, and the entity will reflexively trigger, rendering me unrecognizably monstrous and in pain for a time, preventing me from attending, and so I have learned to keep my expectations tempered. I cannot blame it, it is my fault for being too optimistic

Repressed expectations in tow, I enter Butcher’s Bar. Inside, I grab a few shots and a couple slices of salami. Scoping the place out, I grab a beer and a halfie to walk around with. I see some people I know, and have a general conversation with them, before zoning out and withdrawing from practiced disinterest. Finding a break in the conversation, I excuse myself to the bathroom, and wander. In the further back room, I pass where the bodies hang to the exit out to an enclosed lot where I can have a smoke. There are a few others here, I nod in acknowledgement of their existence, and keep to myself.

Back inside, I sit alone at the bar, and order another beer. I feel nothing here, and no connection to anyone. I am miserable, and it is perfect. I hate my life. After my beer, I head home around midnight. I drink more alone when I get home, listening to better music than what played at the bar. My own choice. Racing myself, I wake up not remembering anything after 2AM, and go to the bathroom. Washing my hands, I notice my soap dish is clean.

I had the Phil Hartman nightmare again. Yeah, that one, you all know it.

The one where it’s a movie in the 80s/90s, and these thieves have broken into a government facility. Though it’s seemingly already a bit ransacked in the lower parts. Almost as if there was a problem, or they’re trying to leave in a hurry. So there are still some few scientists around. The thieves split up to find what they came for, and maybe pick up a little something extra on the side.

The main character (POV you/me in the dream, Steve Martin in the movie, iirc), gets what they came for by threatening a scientist who just wants to get out of there and doesn’t care about the experimental tech. This time it was like 5-6 of those blue PS4 game cases with white paper cover inserts, black sharpie titles. Experimental videogames and the console to play them on all in a cardboard box, wires included. (It changes every time I have the dream.) As the main character starts to leave with the bounty, the scene cuts to one of the other thieves.

The next thief, Jon Lovitz, snooping around, sees a sealed door heavily marked with all sorts of “Do Not Open” and “Danger” warnings. He shuts off a bunch of the fail-safes, and greedily licks his lips and rubs his hands together in anticipation as he opens the door to find Phil Hartman wearing a green and purple polo shirt tucked into blue jeans sitting on the floor, handcuffed to a table in the special room. Phil lights up to see Lovitz, and is real friendly, happy to be freed. Lovitz gets in close asking this handcuffed man about what kinda stuff there might be to steal in this place. Phil is eager to help for his freedom, says he knows lots about this place, but then lunges at Lovitz, breaking the cuffs, biting deep into his throat.

Then we follow Danny DeVito thief, and he runs into Phil, who is super friendly again, but Danny isn’t having it, being all ‘get outta the way, chump, or I’ll put a bullet in ya’ but Phil won’t leave. He keeps on talking friendly small talk, so DeVito takes a swing at him with his gun, but Phil is too fast, so DeVito starts shooting, Phil dodges it all, and begins chasing DeVito, crawling on the walls and vanishing and stuff, all the while smiling with a creepy grimace of a smile. DeVito soon thinks he lost him, looking around, but turns to find Phil looming over him from the darkness.

Cut back to the main person with the box of stuff, where we hear DeVito’s blood curdling scream of death, so I try to make it out with the box, but am constantly chased by Hartman, appearing in front of me, saying stuff like ‘how about that weather’ or ‘what’s in the box, neighbor’ I make it to the final exiting area, but the army is there, and I ask for their help, but there’s nothing they can do, they’ve come to shut the whole place down, destroy it now, since the experimental weapon has escaped. One soldier gets spooked by Hartman, though, and shoots the glass and metal separating us, and then I can only see glimpses of Hartman biting them, tearing through the ranks as gun flashes silhouette them. He then comes for me. He keeps smiling, looking me dead in the eyes, walking closer and closer. I drop the box out of fear. He leans in and says “I think we’re gonna be great pals.” Then the dream ends.